"No—I don't think so."
"Well—which were you following?" cut in Doyle, to the vexation of Kennedy, who, until then, had had things going pretty much his own way. "Was it Mrs. Lathrop or Shattuck—or—was it Mrs. Wilford herself?"
Doyle modulated his voice in his craftiest manner, the manner which I hated, for it was so evident that he tended toward hanging the crime ultimately on Honora.
"Why, it was Mr. Shattuck I was following," snapped Rascon, "Mr. Shattuck and Mr. Wilford's wife."
The answer was indeed an answer. I felt that Doyle had furnished Rascon with what was, to the crook detective, a neat way to let himself out of a tight position, and I could see that it had given Rascon a relief from Kennedy's more subtle grilling.
"We'll take that matter up later," was all Kennedy ventured, hiding his chagrin at the interruption of Doyle.
On his part, Doyle seemed to insist on making it evident that he had scored.
"Rascon," he added, extending his fist menacingly at the detective, who by this time seemed to have recovered some of his lost equilibrium as he realized the extent of our "find," due to the unexpected treachery of his operative—"Rascon, did you offer to sell these reports to Mrs. Wilford? I know about that Beach House report. Is that why you left Mr. Wilford's name out? Come—you might as well admit it."
"No—I didn't try to sell them to Mrs. Wilford," defied Rascon, with assurance. "Why should I? Mr. Wilford paid me a bonus for that particular report—not to me, of course, but to the operative I had assigned to the case."
Kennedy, by this time, had given up the further quizzing of Rascon at this time as hopeless, and was preparing to leave.